


Working Together

by kaeorin



Series: Loki's Lullabies [114]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Avenger Loki (Marvel), Avenger Reader (Marvel), Crossword Puzzles, F/M, Fluff, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Mornings, POV Loki (Marvel), Pre-Relationship, Quiet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 09:48:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25348726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeorin/pseuds/kaeorin
Summary: It’s the quiet moments with you that Loki has come to savor. The late nights chatting peacefully. The mornings that you pore over the crossword puzzle.
Relationships: Loki (Marvel)/Reader
Series: Loki's Lullabies [114]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1678240
Comments: 11
Kudos: 154





	Working Together

There were not a lot of mortals that Loki could tolerate for very long. He did what he could, of course: gritting his teeth and pretending to play nice while out on missions with Stark, who seemed to adore joking about Loki’s failed attempts to rule the world. He exchanged tight-lipped smiles with Rogers when they crossed paths in the Tower, and avoided eye contact with Romanoff as a show of respect. Sometimes memories of his first time here resurfaced, and though he still couldn’t remember exactly what he’d said to her, he knew that it was bad. He pointedly avoided pulling any pranks on Clint Barton, perhaps also out of...well, not guilt, exactly, but an acknowledgment that he, too, was justified in giving Loki those sideways glances. And he just full-on avoided Banner as much as he could. He didn’t seem to hold anything against Loki, but it was hard to forget how it felt to have your entire body ground to dust by the giant green monster, so...Loki kept his distance.

But you were a mystery to him. You were not on the team the last time that Loki was in Midgard, and apparently you hadn’t even been in the country. You did not carry any firsthand memories of the Chitauri invasion, and so you did not seem to hold it against him. You were the only one who did not tense up any time he entered the room. But neither did you ignore him. Any time he joined you somewhere, you would look up from whatever you were doing to greet him with a smile far warmer than he could possibly have deserved. On occasion, you would engage him in a bit of small talk—it seemed like you could just tell when he might be open to something like that, because you never tried it when he was feeling worse than usual. It was during these light conversations that he learned you loved rainy days, and coffee, and the way he looked when he wore his hair in a low bun.

And _certainly_ he did not start wearing his hair in a low bun more often after that.

There was a stillness about you that soothed him, but did not bore him. You were not quiet because you were simple. On the contrary: you were incredibly smart, and easily held your own with him when your conversations slipped beyond mere talk of the weather. Some of your intelligence was, rather predictably, limited by the usual limitations of mortals—namely, mankind’s steadfast insistence that magic was only ever fantasy and science was the only true reality—but you were delighted and fascinated on the rare occasion that he tried to share things he’d discovered in Asgard. You were hungry for knowledge, and there were many nights that the two of you would sit together at the kitchen table or in the living room just talking to one another, and soaking in the other’s knowledge. You had a bad habit of trying—and failing—to stifle your yawns when it got too late. He did his best not to read too deeply into that, not to allow himself to believe that you wanted to talk to him that badly.

There were some mornings, however, that he discovered you sitting alone in the kitchen. Sometimes you wore what must have been your sleep clothes (and he had to do his best to push aside that odd little thrill he got at seeing something so intimate), but more often you were fully-dressed and ready for the day. The same ridiculously-large mug always sat in front of you, the bitter smell of coffee emanating from it. On those mornings, you primarily just greeted him with that same brilliant smile and a quick compliment, thrown out into the air so easily that he realized you didn’t have to wrack your brain for something kind to say to him. But then you always returned your eyes to the paper in front of you. He’d crept closer, once, to see what you were working on, and found a grid of black and white squares, partially filled-in with your neat, precise handwriting.

You’d caught him looking. “Did you have crossword puzzles in Asgard?” You sat back a little, moving your hands to give him a better look at the puzzle before you. It looked simple enough. Each row and column of white boxes was numbered, and each one had a corresponding clue to tell you how to fill them in. 

“That one.” He leaned in a little closer and pointed to a row of boxes that you’d left blank. “Cressida. Troilus and Cressida. It’s...Shakespeare.”

You hesitated for a moment, apparently turning the possibility over in your mind as you tested the fit, but then filled in the boxes. You crossed out the clue beneath the grid and then looked up to smile at him. “Thank you. I’m not familiar with that one.”

He stayed quiet for a moment, perhaps struck by your smile and the closeness of you, but then took a few steps backwards to re-establish more distance between you, and nodded his head. Something in the back of his mind was telling him to flee, to get as far away from you as he could before he did something foolish, but he was more selfish than that. Instead, he turned towards the counter and set about making some tea. You left him in peace, working on your puzzle in silence, but of course he could not force himself _not_ to listen for your movements.

Perhaps as a way to prove to himself that he _could_ , Loki joined you at the table. You didn’t look up at him again, though, which he only took as further evidence that you knew more of his mind than you should have. He tried not to watch you work. He didn’t have much success. Your brow furrowed here and there as you came across a more difficult clue, and he was entirely too drawn to the sheer determination in your face. 

For a long time now, he’d known that he was very interested in intelligence. He took a guilty sort of pleasure in watching you on those mornings. He started joining you more often, though he rarely let himself get as close as he had that first day. Every once in a while, you would look up and give him an apologetic look before reading a clue and asking for his guesses. He liked helping you. A lot. One morning, when he’d found you in your sleep clothes, you had to ask for his help three different times. On the third, you’d offered him a dry laugh and apologized profusely for bothering him, but told him that you felt like crap and couldn’t think. His heart went out to you. You’d gotten back from a mission late last night, he knew, so he could hardly blame you for not working at peak performance. He’d moved to the chair beside you, that morning, and you’d moved the puzzle so he could see it better, and the two of you worked together, heads bent low over the paper.

It was an odd feeling. He’d rather liked sitting there with you, mostly just watching you work. He’d liked breathing in the scent of your hair and your coffee. He still wanted to leave the work to you, and not butt in and take over, so he was careful at first only to speak up when he noticed the way you tapped your pencil thoughtfully on the table. He’d never felt like this with anyone before, mortal or not. And when you’d finished that day’s puzzle— _together_ —you had impulsively reached out to throw your arms around him and he’d _liked it._ He’d hugged you back, wrapping his arms around your back to keep you close, and it’d been _nice_.

He heard your quick little gasp and felt the way you tried to straighten your shoulders, maybe pull away from him, but he wasn’t quite ready to let you go. You’d apologized to him in a quiet voice even as he stroked your back, and something in the sound gave him the courage to keep holding you. It told him that you were only horrified about touching him because you thought he wouldn’t like it. It wasn’t because you regretted touching him in the first place. That in itself—his certainty about how you felt—was like a miracle. He held you a little tighter for a moment, turning his head to breathe you in, and then finally allowed you to pull away. 

“Sorry,” you mumbled again, keeping your eyes fixed on the finished puzzle. “I should have asked. I didn’t think.”

He was struck, hard, by the desire to cup your face in his hands and convince you to look at him, but he kept his hands safely before him. He picked at the skin on one of his fingers and shrugged.

“It’s alright, I don’t mind,” he said after a while. “You never need to ask.”

You looked up quickly, then, like you realized what he was actually saying. He couldn’t bring himself to look at you, but he did offer a hesitant smile. It was hardly the biggest risk he’d ever taken, but it still felt...significant. After what felt like a long time, he saw you reach out towards him, and you closed your hand over his.

Something in your touch gave him the courage to meet your gaze and, when he did, a lovely warmth spread through him.


End file.
